The Blockheads Live At 229 – Post Funk Vaudeville For The Modern Age

There are gigs, and then there are happenings, strange, cinematic eruptions where music, theatre, satire and pure British absurdism collide in a glorious metropolitan blur. At 229, The Blockheads delivered precisely that kind of spectacle: a dazzlingly idiosyncratic celebration of punk-funk artistry that felt less like nostalgia and more like witnessing a living, breathing cultural institution refusing to calcify. From the opening strains of “Wake Up and Make Love” from New Boots and Panties!!, the atmosphere inside the venue became charged with the peculiar electricity that only great bands possess. Mike Bennett approached the song with an initially restrained tenderness, almost channelling the crooked romanticism of Ian Dury himself before detonating into the elastic rhythmic delirium of “Particular to Your Abracadabra.” The performance had swagger, grit and a knowing theatricality, equal parts music hall surrealism and street-corner poetry.

What immediately became apparent was the astonishing calibre of the musicianship onstage. John Turnbull played incredible guitar throughout the evening, unleashing riff after riff with volcanic precision and swaggering authority. Whether stabbing angular chords into the punk-funk grooves or letting loose with gloriously ragged rock-and-roll flourishes, his playing possessed a thrilling looseness that elevated every number into something combustible and dangerous. Then came two magnificent excavations from the legendary Do It Yourself album, first “Sink My Boats,” performed with all the punk abrasion and sardonic bite of the original recording, its surreal Woody Allen references still sounding deliciously deranged. This was followed by a sublime rendition of “Inbetweenies,” a song so drenched in rhythmic sensuality and wiry funk propulsion that the entire room appeared hypnotised by its groove-laden brilliance.

Nathan King and John Roberts locked together with extraordinary fluidity, creating a rhythm section of almost obscene tightness. There were moments when the performance drifted into the cosmic territory of Funkadelic with touches of Sly and the Family Stone sensibilities, yet always filtered through the uniquely British eccentricity that has made The Blockheads such a singular proposition. The songs’ ambiguous lyrical meditations on sexuality, class and social identity still feel startlingly contemporary, proving that Dury’s writing remains decades ahead of its time. Mick Gallagher’s gloriously quirky synthesisers formed an essential cornerstone of the performance throughout the night. His unmistakable keyboard textures, shimmering, wheezing, playful and magnificently odd, remain absolutely integral to the classic Blockheads sound. His contributions gave the set a lush cinematic texture that constantly transformed the songs into miniature urban dramas. The lighting show was also absolutely fabulous, bathing the venue in shifting colours and stark shadows that added another dimension entirely to an already unforgettable performance. Meanwhile, the compositional genius of Chaz Jankel loomed over the evening like a benevolent ghost. The sophistication of the arrangements, those slippery funk motifs, sudden rhythmic pivots and impossibly infectious melodic hooks, demonstrated just how much Jankel’s musical architecture augmented Dury’s lyrical brilliance. One suspects Jankel would have been immensely proud hearing these songs performed with such ferocious vitality and respect for their intricate musicality.

Classics such as “What a Waste,” “Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll,” “I Want to Be Straight,” and “Billericay Dickie” exploded across the venue with euphoric intensity. Mike Bennett wisely avoided mimicry, instead inhabiting the material with enough irreverence and individuality to honour Dury without lapsing into caricature. This became especially poignant during “My Old Man,” a coolly melancholic meditation drenched in observational poetry and bruised tenderness. Bennett delivered the song with remarkable restraint, allowing its lament for paternal memory and working-class masculinity to resonate with genuine emotional heft. The newer compositions “Why Me?” and the politically barbed “Liberty” demonstrated that The Blockheads are far from a heritage act lazily recycling former glories. These songs possessed bite, satire and genuine contemporary resonance, delivered with a muscular confidence that suggested a band still creatively restless. One of the evening’s absolute high points arrived during “Clever Trevor“, when Dave Lewis unleashed an utterly astonishing saxophone solo that bordered on transcendental. His playing veered between savage jazz improvisation and razor-sharp rhythm-and-blues phrasing, filling the room with a wild, ecstatic energy. At one point the solo became so incendiary that the audience collectively erupted, mesmerised by Lewis’s sheer technical brilliance and fearless showmanship.

“Reasons to Be Cheerful, Part 3” and “Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick” transformed the venue into a joyous communal celebration, with audience participation reaching near-football-terrace levels of fervour. Yet despite the crowd euphoria, the performances retained immense musical sophistication beneath the chaos. A blinding version of “What’s the Deal Mama?” arrived with the swaggering menace of Dr. Feelgood in full flight, doing co-writer Derek Hussey proud alongside the unmistakable musical fingerprints of Chaz Jankel. Then came “Blockheads”, a savage punk detonation that sent bodies flying across the venue in ecstatic abandon. For a fleeting moment, the room ceased to exist in the present day; instead, it became a sweat-drenched portal back to the lawless splendour of late-70s new wave Britain. Mike Bennett snarled through the song with echoes of Crass, Sex Pistols and the glorious disintegration of underground anarcho-punk fury, yet always with Dury’s sardonic wit pulsing beneath the chaos.

The final encore, “Lullaby of Francis,” emerged like some strange reggae lullaby drifting through the ruins after the riot. Beautifully melancholic and peculiarly moving, it provided a perfect emotional coda to an evening overflowing with wit, virtuosity and glorious musical eccentricity.At a time when so many legendary groups have become pale imitations of themselves, The Blockheads remain defiantly alive — a ferociously talented ensemble capable of transforming songs that already border on cultural mythology into something thrillingly immediate once again. With musical promises such as this, it is little wonder that The Blockheads have been chosen as special guests for Madness at Madrophobia on Brighton Beach on the 21st of June. I strongly recommend that if you can secure a ticket, be there. Miss it, and you genuinely miss out.